


Crystal Glass Clarity

by tothewillofthepeople



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, Elaborate Flowery Language, Fluff, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothewillofthepeople/pseuds/tothewillofthepeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is the ideal Parisian man: he is always, always in love. But he <i>never</i> pines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crystal Glass Clarity

Grantaire does not pine.

He doesn’t, and he finds it ridiculous when Bossuet or Courfeyrac accuse him of doing so. He laughs at them, and at everyone, when the topic comes up. He feels that he is the only one privy to an elaborate joke that he has constructed.

“I am Parisian,” he tells Joly one night, beaming widely. “I am in love with being in love. Why should I care if it is unrequited?”

Joly hiccups and looks at him like an awestruck child. “Don’t you get lonely?” He asks. He has all of the desperation of a man in the rain with a broken umbrella.

Grantaire toasts him with a glass of exquisite champagne. “At times,” he replies freely, and his eyes do not lose their light. “But I have the joy of feeling my heart race and my face flush; I have the honor of beautiful daydreams and quiet possibilities.”

“You have such a melancholy soul,” Courfeyrac breaks in. The brown bottle in his hand is nowhere near as beautiful as Grantaire’s crystal glass, and Grantaire pities him for it.

“I do not find sadness to be as reprehensible as you seem to,” he says, and then he leans forward as though he will tell them a great secret. “I do not believe that any one emotion is better or worse than any other. The heaviness of sadness was created to combat the flights of euphoria, my friends! Do not go seeking constant happiness. If sadness is what you fear, then sadness is all that you will feel.”

“You cannot pretend that you enjoy the feeling of sadness,” Joly responds. He is small and pale and Grantaire wants to paint him in watercolors.

“I do not.” He takes an elegant sip of his drink and enjoys that taste of sunlight on his tongue. “But I realize the necessity of it. Some days I awake with a stone in my chest. Do you know what I do?” He sets his glass carefully on the table. “I get dressed and move on.”

Courfeyrac laughs like a child, too. “Grantaire,” he says, “I have never met a man who can have philosophies that are as hopeless and uplifting as yours.”

“The truth is this.” Grantaire delivers his words like stars, laid out in familiar constellations. “I know that he will never love me, and I cannot bring myself to care. I get to dream about him, and hope; I have the advantage of never growing tired of him; I never have to worry about losing him.”

“What if he were to return your love?”

“The question is unnecessary: he never will,” Grantaire says promptly, raising one black eyebrow at Joly.

“You are a poet at heart, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says in admiration.

Grantaire toasts him as well. “If by that you mean I am honest, I will accept the compliment with my thanks,” he replies. “I like to believe that poets are nothing but honest men. Their words are beautiful only because they are true.”

“And all that you say is true?” Joly asks. His face has not lost its look of wonder.

“Of course not.” Grantaire takes another drink of sunlight. “A man must lie from time to time. As a result, the words that are not false stand out by comparison.”

“You views on love certainly stand out.” Courfeyrac twinkles. “Are we to accept them as such?”

“You would do me a disservice if you did not,” Grantaire informs him. He finds that even while relaxed his mouth is set in an easy smile.

Joly makes an upset sound, like a student denied his break. “I want you to be loved, though,” he says, and the tips of his words turn blue with unhappiness. “Loving and not being loved in return makes the soul ache.”

“Bahorel aches when he fights and Feuilly aches when he works, and they take pride in that,” Grantaire muses. “Why do my bruises not deserve my admiration?” Joly still appears unsatisfied. Grantaire leans forward and puts a gentle hand on his arm. “I am loved, Joly,” he whispers, looking his friend in the eyes. “I am surrounded by love; I am drowning in it. Do not fear for my soul.”

Courfeyrac’s bottle makes a dull sound when it is set on the table, and Grantaire sets down his own glass so that the sharp sound will appease him.

“How can someone be in love with love?” Courfeyrac demands. His eyes are happy, but he twists his mouth sternly downwards.

“It’s easy.” Grantaire leans back in his chair and spreads his hands wide. “I love the feeling of waking up from a dream of him. I love the way my breath becomes shorter when he enters a room. I love the way that my thoughts turn to him when we are parted.” He leans his head back and opens his mouth wide, to taste the sounds and the colors that surround him. “I respond to him the way I respond to nothing else!” He declares, aiming his words at the ceiling. “Why should I not love the way that my body and my mind have conspired to allow me to fly?”

Joly looks as though he may cry with happiness. “Everything you see is so beautiful to you,” he whispers, and Grantaire grins.

“Love is the greatest emotion of all,” he states firmly, “but it is often confused with the feeling of being loved in return. Both are wonderfully, wildly, brilliantly excellent, but I will not scorn the former because I do not receive the latter.”

“You are the best of all of us,” Courfeyrac says fondly. He reaches for his bottle but Grantaire saves him by lending him the crystal glass.

“It is good of you to think so,” he says generously. “I think that you are better than I at receiving the affections of others.”

Courfeyrac smiles over the rim of the crystal glass. “I am in love with being loved,” he quips.

“And I love you for it,” Grantaire responds. Joly beams over at him, and it is as though the moon is rising from his smile.

The brown bottle lays forgotten on the table as they each kiss the rim of Grantaire’s crystal glass. Courfeyrac tastes starlight; Joly tastes moonbeams; Grantaire, when he reclaims his drink, is welcomed once again by the taste of the sun.

“The night is beautiful, my friends,” he says. “Let us go out and swallow it whole.”

No, he does not pine.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm experimenting with Grantaire's characterization and I like him best when he's flushed and happy and smiling. Let me know what you think!


End file.
